Jenn beachler (10 Ergebnisse)

Zustand: As New. Unread book in perfect condition.

Zustand: New.

Zustand: New.

Zustand: As New. Unread book in perfect condition.

Paperback. Zustand: new. Paperback. Editorial-a cento using the works from Shadowplay Issue 4 The brown thrush signals end of day, after a whole life building, to be called a ruin.Your visions droop and wallow, sticky weepingwounds all black and tarred, the remainsof what they assumed to be impending doom. A globe in the branches turning and burningbrightly into the deep heat of that day.faint cries coming over the water, alongthe unpaved country road, kicking up dust. Your curse cut me, and through the scabs, clamped inside the jaws of life, I wrestmy sleeves, their dead and dried up leavescurly at the base. Jagged slivers spew outand tinkle. They would be uprooted. On the pavement like heavy rain, I was mute with the mutenessof a flamboyance of trees. Silencechanges shape to begin anewwhere we went all wrong. And then at her feet of ivory and ice, my shadow crosses snow, with a distanceas vast as that which isolates the stars, a new brittleness in my chesttranslating tales to blank-faced stares. Let's not talk of ghosts, though.I hear them moaning a deep, continuous roar, a thing of beautyin an unbeautiful environment. I've felt myself morphing into another being, pointing toward a small silhouette.Stems push through broken stonesof the mirror surface, having trudged throughthe downpour framed in the doorway. We're gliding through a passageway, the souls off to mourning songsand hunger, litter strewn, litter cleared, the leaves shaggy like billy goats.And I, off to perch into something else.My rusted ribs cave, cracking like the rattlingof small stones, the skywards swoopof my movement on cobalt-sheenedwings. Hope, the birds are still calling. Jenn BeachlerEditor-in-Chief of Shadowplay This item is printed on demand. Shipping may be from multiple locations in the US or from the UK, depending on stock availability.…

PAP. Zustand: New. New Book. Shipped from UK. THIS BOOK IS PRINTED ON DEMAND. Established seller since 2000.

Zustand: New. Print on Demand.

Taschenbuch. Zustand: Neu. Neuware - Editorial-a cento using the works from Shadowplay Issue 4 The brown thrush signals end of day, after a whole life building, to be called a ruin.Your visions droop and wallow, sticky weepingwounds all black and tarred, the remains>A globe in the branches turning and burningbrightly into the deep heat of that day.faint cries coming over the water, along>Your curse cut me, and through the scabs, clamped inside the jaws of life, I wrestmy sleeves, their dead and dried up leavescurly at the base. Jagged slivers spew out>On the pavement like heavy rain, I was mute with the mutenessof a flamboyance of trees. Silencechanges shape to begin anew>And then at her feet of ivory and ice, my shadow crosses snow, with a distanceas vast as that which isolates the stars, a new brittleness in my chest>Let's not talk of ghosts, though.I hear them moaning a deep, continuous roar, a thing of beauty>I've felt myself morphing into another being, pointing toward a small silhouette.Stems push through broken stonesof the mirror surface, having trudged through>We're gliding through a passageway, the souls off to mourning songsand hunger, litter strewn, litter cleared, the leaves shaggy like billy goats.And I, off to perch into something else.My rusted ribs cave, cracking like the rattlingof small stones, the skywards swoopof my movement on cobalt-sheenedwings. Hope, the birds are still calling. Jenn BeachlerEditor-in-Chief of Shadowplay.…

PAP. Zustand: New. New Book. Delivered from our UK warehouse in 4 to 14 business days. THIS BOOK IS PRINTED ON DEMAND. Established seller since 2000.

Paperback. Zustand: new. Paperback. Editorial-a cento using the works from Shadowplay Issue 4 The brown thrush signals end of day, after a whole life building, to be called a ruin.Your visions droop and wallow, sticky weepingwounds all black and tarred, the remainsof what they assumed to be impending doom. A globe in the branches turning and burningbrightly into the deep heat of that day.faint cries coming over the water, alongthe unpaved country road, kicking up dust. Your curse cut me, and through the scabs, clamped inside the jaws of life, I wrestmy sleeves, their dead and dried up leavescurly at the base. Jagged slivers spew outand tinkle. They would be uprooted. On the pavement like heavy rain, I was mute with the mutenessof a flamboyance of trees. Silencechanges shape to begin anewwhere we went all wrong. And then at her feet of ivory and ice, my shadow crosses snow, with a distanceas vast as that which isolates the stars, a new brittleness in my chesttranslating tales to blank-faced stares. Let's not talk of ghosts, though.I hear them moaning a deep, continuous roar, a thing of beautyin an unbeautiful environment. I've felt myself morphing into another being, pointing toward a small silhouette.Stems push through broken stonesof the mirror surface, having trudged throughthe downpour framed in the doorway. We're gliding through a passageway, the souls off to mourning songsand hunger, litter strewn, litter cleared, the leaves shaggy like billy goats.And I, off to perch into something else.My rusted ribs cave, cracking like the rattlingof small stones, the skywards swoopof my movement on cobalt-sheenedwings. Hope, the birds are still calling. Jenn BeachlerEditor-in-Chief of Shadowplay This item is printed on demand. Shipping may be from our UK warehouse or from our Australian or US warehouses, depending on stock availability.…